


Disconnected And Broken

by Lothlorienne



Series: Tumblr challenges [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:44:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothlorienne/pseuds/Lothlorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written during the first hiatus, as an angsty continuation of what happened at the pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disconnected And Broken

John desperately tried to stop himself from shaking.  
He was sitting in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in an orange blanket. People were screaming. The fire was still roaring. John hoped Sherlock had managed to jump in the pool before the blast spread, but he knew it was a small chance.

Sergeant Donovan stood next to him. John could feel her hand on his shoulder. She handed him a small plastic cup. Tea. As if that would make it all right again. He took it from her anyway, though he didn’t have the energy to take a single sip.  
People rushed by with a stretcher. John’s heart stood still as he saw the body was covered with a sheet. He shrugged off his own shock blanket and rushed forward, screaming in panic. ‘Sherlock?!’

But before he could reach the stretcher, Donovan mumbled John’s name in a way that made his blood run cold. He turned to face her. Sally’s hands covered her mouth, but the pain and compassion was still visible in her eyes. She was looking towards the building, and John followed her gaze. A fireman came running. In his arms he was carrying a bloody and limp body, and John recognized the long, lifeless figure of Sherlock Holmes.

The image that was freshly burned into John’s retina got even more haunting when the building finally exploded, turning the scene into a whirlwind of flames and rubble. The fireman almost got knocked over, but clenched the body in his arms tight enough to make sure he didn’t drop the man. Without realizing it, John had started to sprint towards the two of them. ‘Be careful!’ he yelled. ‘Oh, God,  _please_  be careful with him!’

The fireman had made it out just in time, but Sherlock was in bad shape nevertheless. He was still breathing, though it was shallow and seemed to take a lot of effort. John didn’t know what to do. He wanted to take the man into his arms, hold him close and sob out of pure relief, thankful that they had both made it out alive. The rational doctor within, however, warned John that he had absolutely no idea of Sherlock’s condition, and he reminded himself that he should keep thought of the possibility that his friend could suffer from internal damage, a concussion, or something worse. The scared victim within John just wanted to crawl into a corner and pull a dozen shock blankets over his head.

John felt a hand close around his upper arm, pulling him back gently. Sherlock grimaced in pain. It was the last thing John saw before he finally collapsed and everything went dark.

 

Only a few hours later, John was sitting next to Sherlock. He was holding his friend’s hand and staring intensely at his face, waiting for Sherlock to wake up. He  _needed_  the detective to wake up. To talk to him. To tell him everything was alright, even though John had already spoken with the doctors and he knew full well that everything was most definitely not alright. He had absolutely no idea how Sherlock would deal with the situation, but John knew he needed to be there for his friend. He had hoped that Sherlock and his brilliant rationality could make John feel safe and certain again, but he knew he had to be the strong one now. It was time to become the professional, trustworthy doctor again, someone to look up to and ask for advice. Someone who would, when asked, always have an answer ready.

 

John didn’t realize his eyes had fallen shut until he heard a low groan coming from Sherlock and he had to open his eyes to look at the man in the bed. He was slowly waking up. John took a firm hold of Sherlock’s hand as he moved closer, his eyes full of worry. It seemed like he had already forgotten about the strong, protective role he had wanted to fulfil.

‘Sherlock? Wake up, Sherlock? Can you hear me? Can you see me? Just squeeze my hand to let me know you can hear me.’

Sherlock groaned again, and his thumb softly stroked John’s hand. It wasn’t anything like squeezing, but this gesture seemed satisfying enough for John, and he allowed himself to calm down a bit. He sank back into the chair next to the bed, without letting go of his friend’s hand.

Sherlock had now opened his mouth and was breathing through his parted lips. His eyelids fluttered as he struggled to keep them open. He was drugged by the medication and supposed to rest, but of course, Sherlock wanted to gather information. It took him a few seconds before he could mumble a question: ‘Moriarty… did he…’

‘He’s dead,’ John responded, ‘they brought his body out on a stretcher, a bit before they recovered your body.’

Sherlock nodded once, deciding to keep his eyes closed for a while.

‘A stretcher,’ John continued, the bitterness audible in his voice. ‘That bastard’s body should have burned with the rest of the building. If only they had been that careful with you, then maybe – I mean,  _you_  were the one who needed the stretcher, not him. Perhaps – if you had been found first – if they had put you on it and just carried  _his_  body instead of yours…’

John leaned forward again. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and wanted him to squeeze back again.

‘John.’

Sherlock’s voice was low and husky. He needed to swallow before he could speak again, and he furrowed his eyebrows, bothered with the effort it took him to speak.

‘I… can’t feel my legs.’

John felt tears well up, but tried his best to hold them back. He looked down to make sure Sherlock couldn’t read anything from his facial expression, even though he knew the detective would keep his eyes shut for now. ‘Your spinal cord suffered damage, Sherlock. They say there is  _a problem with the connection_. Like it’s a broken wire that needs to be fixed, even though it can’t be. You’re disconnected, forever. Sherlock, you’ll be permanently para–‘

John swallowed. He looked back up at his friend’s face, his furrowed brow.

‘Oh God, Sherlock. You love the chase. You love the action, the exciting cases.’ His voice was nothing but a low whisper. ‘You don’t deserve this. You so  _very_  much do  _not_  deserve this. It should have been Moriarty. It should have been me. It should not have been you.’ His anger grew stronger with those last words, and John took a moment to calm himself down. He leaned forward once again and let his head rest on the side of the bed, right next to Sherlock’s hand. He mumbled into the mattress. ‘I know you. You won’t be able to stand the boredom. Who knows how you’ll handle this. Please just tell me, because I sure as hell can’t figure out what will become of us now.’

He raised his head and looked up. John knew what he had hoped to see. A comforting smile. A determined nod. The vague look in Sherlock’s eyes, as a sign that he was thinking, concentrated on finding a solution, just like when he was solving a case. But John found none of that in Sherlock’s expression. For now, his friend had given in to the medication and was once again fast asleep.


End file.
